


i know the dogs will find you

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a series of loosely connected snapshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know the dogs will find you

**Author's Note:**

> _[title taken from 'rituals' by pill friends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsoGsxbFoN8) _
> 
> i......cant believe im posting this. 
> 
> but here we are. this work is going to be a collection of smaller scenes, mostly written to keep me entertained and my writing juices flowing between the projects i'm working on right now. my aim isn't to be deep or profound--this is a fun work. that said, i am just a _tiny_ bit embarrassed that i chose to go the cliche route and have everyone smell like goddamn yankee candles, but it is what it is. i am aware that people dont smell like that, and that a/b/o really calls for nuanced musk. but check this out! i dont care. 
> 
> im also aware that this is about half as long as what i usually write, and i wish it were longer, but im honestly just tired of this bumping around in my head. im not sure how often this will update since i dont plan to have any overarching story. the main focus will likely be trikey, just knowing me, but i have a few crackships up my sleeve and i'll update the tags as required. this is rated explicit because despite their not being smut, i know myself and i am more than aware that soon this will devolve into a full on pornofest. enjoy!

Michael doesn’t know how Trevor can stand to be around Wade for more than a few minutes at a time. He’s an Omega, and he reeks. He smells like a room full of crushed rose petals with a bucket of sugar thrown over the mush for good measure, sticky and cloying in his nostrils. It’s true that he usually likes sweet Omegas, but it’s just overpowering and sickening on Wade. It sticks to everything he comes within five feet of, and now that he's come up to Sandy Shores, where Michael is imprisoned with the lovely Patricia, Michael can't seem to get a fresh breath. Trevor carries it into the trailer and Michael is certain it's seeping into his pores and he'll never scrub it away.

Not that Michael is jealous. He and Trevor's days of adolescent tussling are far behind them. They're grown men, now, and it's unseemly to play like they used to. It's one thing for young Alphas to wrestle and poke fun and sometimes take things too far (Michael steadfastly refuses to think about Trevor, pinned under him, sweating and bruised and arching up into him like an Omega in heat, the smell of sea salt and woodfire wafting around them) but it's another thing entirely to do it as adults. That sort of childish closeness between Alphas is...unseemly. They're biologically incompatible for a reason. 

Regardless, Michael dreams sometimes that Trevor is scenting his neck, his nose pushing up under Michael's jaw. He goes to push him away, and Trevor raises his face and his eyes are lifeless and his mouth is covered in blood. He wakes shaking, but not screaming, so he counts it as an improvement. They're older now, grown into their status. They don't scent anymore, he reminds himself. It's Omegan behavior. 

A month into his captivity, Michael finds a jacket. Well. Finds _his_ jacket. It's well-worn slate colored leather, something he used to practically live in when he younger. Something he lost in the move to Los Santos, he thought. 

It's balled up under Trevor's pillow, and Michael wants to be moved by this, that his friend, his brother, kept this memento so long and so close. Instead, his every instinct urges him to run. Flee. Go, and go far. Don't come back. Don't let him find you. Don't get swept up in him, in how he feels and feels and feels. For a long time, Michael stands in the empty room, clutching the collar of his old jacket, petrified. 

But it passes. It always does. That was days ago. He's still here. 

He's only thinking about all of this now because they're stuck in the desert and Wade has come from his post in Los Santos to give Trevor information, or to help Chef with something, or something else Michael doesn't care about and the heat only makes it worse, only makes it so that when Trevor walks by him even hours after he disappears to God-knows-where with Wade a trail of sticky sweet roses seems to follow him. It makes Michael nauseous. He isn't sure if Trevor had that hickey before he left or not. He doesn't think about it. It's not his business. 

Instead he clears his throat and Trevor looks at him lazily, barely lifting his head. 

"What?" He drawls, more relaxed than Michael has seen him these past couple of months. 

"That blonde kid." Michael says. Trevor nods.

"Smells like cotton candy? I know, it's uh-maze-ing." Trevor says. Michael rolls his eyes. Of course Trevor loves the living embodiment of Omegas overdoing it. 

"It's a little much." He looks at Trevor pointedly, but Trevor seems unconcerned. They sit with their sweating beers in the glow of the television and Michael pretends he can't smell the sugar scent hanging on the sea salt in the room.

When he goes to bed, the sheets smell like rotting fish. Michael doubts Trevor has ever washed them. His light bonfire-by-the-beach scent turns oily and heavy if it's left too long. When they were kids, the stolen cars they slept in would smell like a fire a mile off between Michael's pipe tobacco and vanilla scent and Trevor's woodsmoke. Lester used to hate it; he'd wake up screaming in the night, thinking their hidey hole was burning to the ground just because Trevor and Michael had a fight and were walking around smelling like the end of the world.

He isn't reminded of how they made up--the sweet scent of s'mores floating around them, the vanilla mingling with the smoke, the low, deep sound of Trevor purring, the pressure of him pressing against him, Michael's teeth digging into his flesh, rendering him soft, mewling, compliant--

None of that matters. It's long passed. The mattress dips and Trevor slinks into bed, too, close enough to feel the heat of him but not enough to touch. Michael feigns sleep. He feels homesick. He isn't sure for what, exactly. He tries to keep his thoughts from spinning. It doesn't work. 

It shouldn't bother him. It _doesn't_ bother him. He's seen Trevor chuff and scent with Lamar, and maybe it's a little different, since the kid is a Beta, but it's not as if he would have a problem if he were an Omega. What does he care if Trevor has every pretty kid from here to Vinewood drooling after his knot? Between Wade and Lamar and that Ron guy, Trevor's really building a following. Which is great. It means he'll bother him less.

Michael falls asleep to the sound of Trevor's steady breathing and the thought that soon they would have half the state between them again.


End file.
